


Things That Never Happened: Episode Insertions

by wheel_pen



Series: Viridian Mal [53]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fish out of Water, Gen, Imprinting, Naughtiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-08 23:10:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few brief attempts at inserting Mal into some canon episodes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things That Never Happened: Episode Insertions

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Viridians appear human, but are actually aliens who imprint on other people (Viridian or otherwise) and form a bond with them. They also live their entire life cycle in about six Earth years.
> 
> 2\. In each series, a different character is a Viridian, who was raised by mean Klingons on an outpost. An Enterprise crewmember is captured by the Klingons and they inadvertently form a bond with the Viridian, who helps them escape. Then they return to rescue the Viridian and bring them aboard the Enterprise. The Viridian homeworld is contacted and the Enterprise crew learn the Viridian will most likely die if they are sent away. So they end up staying on the Enterprise, and the crewmember has to adjust.
> 
> 3\. The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

_Sometimes when I watch the canon episodes I like to try to insert my original characters into them. These snippets should not be considered connected to the "official" storyline or even to each other. Also they may have a lot of dialogue from the show._

 

#105 "Unexpected"

 

            "We took a ride in a row boat!" Trip protested, glaring at T'Pol. He turned to Archer, a pleading look on his face. "I swear, Captain, nothing happened!"

            Phlox made a little face, still smiling. "There had to be a somewhat lengthy physical contact to transfer this much genetic material," he pointed out gently.

            "Trip," Archer said, the rest of the sentence clearly, _Time to come clean_.

            "I've been in Starfleet for _twelve years_. Do you think I'd jeopardize my career by messing around with some alien engineer on a three day mission?" Trip replied earnestly. He was on the verge of desperation in his attempt to get the Captain to believe him. Mal petted his bare foot comfortingly from his position on the floor. "I considered myself a diplomat from the minute I set foot in that vessel!" If Vulcans deigned to roll their eyes, he knew T'Pol would be doing it now. Then suddenly Trip remembered something and sagged a little in defeat. "Well, there was that box of pebbles..."

            "Pebbles?" Archer repeated, pouncing on the words.

            "Yeah, she had it on the boat. But it was no big deal!" Trip insisted. "We just stuck our hands into these granules for a few minutes. It's a _game_ they play," he explained icily to T'Pol, who had given him a look. "Lets you read each other's minds. They weren't even real, they were holographic just like everything else in the room!"

            "Doctor?" the Captain queried.

            Phlox's expression said he thought they were grasping at straws, but he stuck with professional vagaries in his answer. "Without a sample of these... telepathic granules, it would be impossible to make a determination," he admitted, "but they _could_ have served as the transfer medium."

            "One of the first things a diplomat learns is not to stick his fingers where they don't belong," T'Pol observed acidly.

            "Captain?" Trip pleaded. He _had_ to make Jon believe him. If T'Pol thought he was some horndog who couldn't keep it in his pants, fine, he didn't care much for _her_ , either—but his Captain was different. Trip couldn't bear thinking that Jon questioned his professionalism.

            Archer chose a non-answer, which didn't exactly reassure Trip. "If we're going to safely remove this life form from Commander Tucker, we'll have to find the Xyrillians," he concluded, turning to T'Pol. "Why don't you and Malcolm see what you can do about locating their ship?"

            "Yes, sir."

            "Is Trip well enough to return to his duties?" Archer asked Phlox.

            "What, are you kidding?" Trip replied instead. "I'm fine!" Apparently he had to cop to getting knocked up on an alien ship, but there was no way in h—l he was going to be derelict in his duties because of it.

            "You'll probably feel a bit nauseated in the mornings," Phlox informed him, "so get sufficient rest and exercise and see met at least once a day." The doctor nodded towards Trip's wrist. "That nipple may not be the only surprise your body has in store for you."

            Trip sighed. "You think we could keep this between the four of us, at least for the time being?" he asked sheepishly. Mal tugged on his foot, offended. "Five of us," Trip amended.

            "You got it," Archer assured him, although Trip feared his tone meant, _Don't worry, I don't_ want _to tell anyone about this_.

            Trip watched the Captain and T'Pol leave Sickbay, his stomach churning. And not just because of the strange hormones flooding his body right now. What if they never found the ship? What if everyone on the crew found out about this? What if Jon never believed that this was in no way Trip's fault?

            "I'm confused," Mal announced, interrupting Trip's increasingly gloomy thoughts.

            "Oh, G-d," Trip moaned, burying his face in his hands. That was all he needed right now. Mal pestering him with inane questions.

            "And what is the source of your confusion?" Phlox inquired politely.

            "Do you think _I_ could be pregnant, too?" Mal questioned.

            "No," Trip snapped.

            Phlox took a more scientific approach. "It seems unlikely, but why do you ask?"

            "Well, I sleep in the same bed with Trip, and I'm around him all the time," Mal reasoned. "What if I _caught_ being pregnant from him?"

            "Mal, you can't 'catch' being pregnant," Trip corrected shortly. "It's not like catchin' a cold."

            "Mal, I seem to recall discussing this with you before," Phlox reminded him gently. "Shall I get the diagrams out again?" Trip shuddered a little at the thought and hoped he could escape before the lessons began.

            "Well frankly your diagrams don't seem to be all that accurate," Mal sniffed haughtily. "You said they were about human reproduction. But Trip's male, _and_ he got pregnant by sticking his hands in a box of rocks. So no offense, Doctor, but I think your diagrams need a _little_ editing."

            For once even Phlox couldn't think of a suitable response to that argument.

 

            "Well, I still don't get it," Mal decided, maneuvering the long strands of noodles on his plate.

            Trip sighed heavily, rubbing his hand over his eyes. "Just forget about it," he advised with frustration. "Because we're gonna find that ship and get this taken care of."

            "Oh, wait," Mal commented, messily dangling the noodles into his mouth. "Is a baby the yellow thing you keep in a bowl of water, that I can't eat?"

            Archer and Trip stared down at the man sitting on the floor between them in the Captain's Mess. "I believe Mal may be referring to a 'goldfish'," Phlox suggested cheerfully, and Trip felt a shudder of exasperation go through his body.

            The Captain cleared his throat, ignoring Mal's question. "You know, it's been over a week, Trip," he commented uncomfortably. "We have to start considering the possibility that we're not going to find the Xyrillians."

            "What's that supposed to mean?" Trip demanded testily. "Are you saying I'm going to deliver this baby?"

            "I believe he's saying a good deal more than that," Phlox added gently. "Once the child is born, it may well rely on you in some way to care for it."

            Trip looked pained. "I'm the Chief Engineer," he reminded them pointedly. "I spent years earning that position! I never had any intention of becoming a—" He paused and sighed. "A working mother. Besides," he continued plaintively, "I've already got Mal—"

            "Well don't look at me," Mal told him defiantly, before Trip actually had. " _I'm_ not going to look after it. Even if all I had to do was change its water and sprinkle some food on top, I wouldn't."

            "I AM NOT PREGNANT WITH A GOLDFISH!" Trip insisted. Right before he noticed the steward had returned with another bowl of chicken tetrazzini. Glaring at the man, Trip snatched the food away and the steward scurried back out.

            "Well, don't be so hasty in your conclusions, Commander," Phlox suggested cheerfully. "We don't know _what_ the Xyrillian juvenile stages might resemble!"

            Archer pressed on despite Trip's look of despair. "You know, the doctor was saying that the gestation period will only last another five weeks, six at the most."

            "You should expect to begin experiencing some unusual symptoms," Phlox cautioned. "Hormonal changes mostly, mood swings, heightened emotions."

            "How lovely," Mal commented acidly.

            "Shut up," Trip ordered him.

            "I suggest you stick with the civilian clothes," Archer recommended helpfully. "Seems to help hide the—" He broke off, suddenly thinking better of what he was about to say, but Trip was staring at him expectantly. Er, with expectation. "—bulge," the Captain finished lamely.

            "How much bigger is this thing gonna get?!" Trip demanded miserably. "I'm already the laughing stock of the ship!"

            "You're just being paranoid," Mal assured him, holding a piece of chicken up to Trip. "Do you think this is cooked all the way through? There's a tiny bit of pink there..."

            "Talk about the pot callin' the kettle black," Trip mumbled sarcastically, pushing Mal's chicken-bearing hand away.

            "I'd like you to start seeing the doctor every eight hours," the Captain added carefully. "As your... delivery date gets closer"—talk about things you never thought you'd say to your _male_ best friend—"he should be able to start figuring out what your postnatal responsibilities might me."

            Trip looked like he was just about at the end of his tether. "Postnatal responsibilities?" he squeaked.

            Phlox smiled beneficently. "You may very well be putting those nipples to work before you know it!" Trip turned to see the steward standing beside them again, this time bearing a fresh pitcher of iced tea and a carefully-controlled expression. The engineer gave the man another dark look until he put the pitcher down and left.

            "There's a bright side to all of this," Archer tried to suggest.

            "Yeah?" Trip demanded, disbelief oozing from every pore. "What's that?"

            "As far as we know, this is the first inter-species pregnancy involving a—" Again, he thought better of what he'd been about to say. "—human," he finished quickly. Because Trip just didn't need _more_ reminders that he was experiencing a rather freakish phenomenon by human male standards. Archer could see he was taking only cold comfort in his little factoid anyway.

            "If it doesn't live in a bowl," Mal began from the floor, "where's the baby going to sleep?"

            "G-d, I don't know," Trip whined, meaning _I don't want to think about it anymore!_

            Mal licked the back of his fork. "I'll let the baby have my old bed," he declared generously.

            "Didn't you used to sleep on the floor, in the corner?" Archer prodded.

            "I had some blankets and a pillow," Mal corrected.

            "I'm afraid that may not be sufficient for an infant, Mal," Phlox pointed out gently.

            "It was good enough for me," Mal countered petulantly. "It should be good enough for some old baby."

            Archer frowned a little at Mal's tone. "Mal, I believe you are displaying classic symptoms of 'sibling rivalry,'" Phlox diagnosed from the end of the table. "If I might take the liberty, Commander"—Trip nodded distractedly, busy stuffing his face with comfort food in the form of chicken tetrazzini—"I can assure you that, should Mr. Tucker indeed take custody of this infant, his level of affection for you will not diminish."

            Mal drew back at this statement, eyes narrowing. "Why do you say that?" he asked suspiciously. "Do you mean Trip _might_ love me less if he has to keep this baby!?"

            "I believe I just said the opposite—" Phlox tried, but it was no use.

            Mal drew himself up on his knees, throwing himself at Trip. "I don't want some horrible, furry, slimy baby flying around the cabin, dropping leaves everywhere!" he wailed, burying his face against Trip's stomach. "I want you to take care of _me_!"

            "G-------t, Mal!" Trip snapped, having spilled pasta down his shirt due to the assault. His only consolation was that some of it got onto Mal as well.

            "Hey, be careful there, Mal!" Archer admonished. "Trip's in a delicate condition, you know!"

Archer's concern earned him only another dark look from Trip, who was trying to turn in his chair, the better to leverage Mal away. "Would you just get off me?" Mal was stuck firmly to him, though, squirming between Trip's knees and wrapping his arms around his lower back. "Get off, Mal! GET OFF!"

            Trip looked up suddenly as the hapless steward had again appeared in the room, watching Mal kneeling between Trip's legs rubbing his face against Trip's stomach as Mal shook his head. "Dessert?" the steward asked blandly. Archer decided to put him in for a commendation. If only to keep him quiet.

            Mal made a sudden impossible back bend while still locked to Trip, gazing at the steward upside-down. "What is it?" he inquired in a normal tone.

            "Chocolate mousse."

            "Yes, please!" Mal decided. No one else around the table took the offer and the steward disappeared.

            Trip glared down at Mal in disgust. "Well I can tell you're _real_ upset," he huffed, "when a little dessert will distract you!"

            "I just don't want you to love me less than a squeaky, slithering new baby," Mal told him mournfully.

            "Oh don't worry," Trip said cuttingly, "I couldn't _possibly_ love you less."

            "Trip!" Archer admonished, but fortunately Mal didn't seem to get it and happily wrapped himself around Trip again. With a sigh the engineer gave in and patted his head.

            The comm suddenly beeped. " _Bridge to Archer_ ," intoned T'Pol.

            The Captain jumped up to press the button. "Go ahead."

            " _We may have found the Xyrillian ship, sir._ "

            A look of deep relief passed over Trip's features. "Thank you!" he exclaimed, face upturned.

            "On our way," Archer assured T'Pol as they all hurriedly left the table.

            "What about my dessert?" Mal whined. The steward appeared at his elbow with a bowl and a spoon. "Oh, thanks!" Mal grabbed the food and trotted after Trip, already stuffing a spoonful in his mouth.

 

            "I just think, maybe I should go with you," Mal repeated with extreme reluctance. "I mean, what if they don't want to take the baby back? Or what if—what if the-the Klingons—"

            Trip cut off Mal's argument by pulling him into an unexpected hug. Mal squeezed him back. "Mal, buddy, I appreciate the offer," Trip told him sincerely, pushing back to look him in the eye. "But I'm gonna be fine. There's no need for you to come along." Trip did his absolute best to project nothing but good cheer and confidence—which was much easier now that it seemed like he was finally going to get back to a normal life soon. But he _had_ to somehow manage to convince Mal to stay behind on _Enterprise_. Because Mal in a small decompression chamber with strange gasses and noises that had freaked _Trip_ out, for three hours, with two _Klingons,_ who were _already_ making fun of Trip before they'd even met in person? Yeah, _that_ didn't have 'disaster' written all over it. "Everything's gonna be okay, alright, buddy?"

            "You're _sure_ you love me more than a thorny, buzzing alien baby?" Mal checked.

            "Absolutely," Trip assured him.

            "Well... okay then."

 

 

#116 "Shuttlepod One"

 

            "Anything?" Archer demanded of Hoshi again.

            The Comm Officer shook her head, biting her lower lip nervously.

            "How long?" He turned to T'Pol.

            "Seventeen point three minutes, Captain," she answered coolly.

            "Can you scan them yet?" Archer persisted.

            "Just now coming into range." T'Pol tapped at her console for what seemed to Archer an eternity. Then she _almost_ frowned.

            "What?" he jabbed, the ice that had been forming in his stomach since they saw the explosion on long-range sensors expanding.

            "Temperature in the shuttlepod reads three point seven degrees," she reported, voice neutral. "Oxygen pressure is down to eleven point six percent."

            "Biosigns?" He could barely get the question out.

            "Two," she confirmed, and Archer relaxed fractionally. At least until she added, "Both faint."

            "Push her, Travis," Archer ordered the helmsman. Mayweather nodded and increased speed as much as he dared, the structure around them beginning to rattle. "Tell Phlox to meet us in the Launch Bay," he called to Hoshi over the noise.

 

            The moment the green pressurization light blinked on, Archer pushed through the door to the launch bay and jogged to the shuttlepod's hatch. Phlox and his team were right behind him. Archer popped the seal and opened the door, the hiss of air unusually loud due to the difference in pressure between the launch bay and the pod. The chill readily apparent in the pod's air was nothing compared to what Archer felt in his own lungs when he saw the men he'd sent out on a "routine" survey mission—they were huddled in the center of the pod, Trip in Mal's arms, both emergency blankets draped over them. Their eyes were closed.

            Automatically Archer stepped back to let Phlox enter, but his gaze never left his crewmen. "Doctor?" he questioned after a moment.

            "Alive," Phlox confirmed. "But suffering from hypothermia. I need to get them to Sickbay immediately."

            Archer jumped into the increasingly crowded shuttlepod, unable to keep himself away any longer. He helped Phlox throw aside the stiff blankets and gently shook Trip's shoulder. "Trip?"

            "They're unconscious, Captain," the doctor informed him, businesslike. He started to unwind Mal's arms from Trip's midsection but paused, momentarily thwarted.

            "What's wrong?" Archer asked. He grabbed Mal's other arm and found out for himself—his arms were locked around Trip like steel bands. "Maybe we could—" They tried rearranging the pair of men, turning them sideways on the floor of the pod. "If you pull on Trip's legs—" No use. Mal's grip could not be circumvented.

            Phlox turned to one of his assistants. "Mild stimulant, followed by a muscle relaxant."

            "What are you going to do?" Archer persisted.

            Phlox gave him the look that only a doctor in the midst of treatment could give to unnecessary personnel. "In order to free Commander Tucker, it appears I will have to artificially induce Mal's muscles to relax," he explained quickly, taking the hypospray his assistant handed him. "But to ensure that the muscle relaxant circulates quickly enough through Mal's body I will have to speed up his heart rate first."

            Archer grabbed Phlox's arm before he could inject Mal. "That sounds dangerous."

            "The alternative, Captain, is to _break_ Mal's arms," the doctor told him shortly. "Time _is_ of the essence here..." Archer nodded and scooted back out of the way, allowing Phlox to press the hypospray against Mal's neck.

            For a moment there was no change, the wait of expectation hanging heavily in the air. Then Trip started to move—not of his own volition, Archer realized after a moment, but because Mal's grip was loosening. Quickly Phlox unfolded Mal's arms and started to haul Trip up with Archer's help. They almost had him out of the pod when there was a jerk that brought them all to a sudden stop. Archer looked back and saw Mal sitting on the floor of the pod, eyes wide open, fingers firmly clasped around Trip's ankle.

            "Mal?" Archer asked in confusion. There was no response.

            "It may be an involuntary reaction," Phlox suggested, clearly finding this operation more complicated than it should be.

            "But Trip's safe now," Archer protested. "Or at least he _will_ be, if Mal would let _go_ of him—"

            "I doubt Mal is in a position to think the situation through rationally," Phlox pointed out. He indicated to one of his assistants to grab Trip under the arms, still holding him aloft halfway out of the pod, and knelt by Mal again. He snapped his fingers in front of Mal's eyes but they didn't so much as flicker. "Hmm, interesting." Quickly Phlox pulled a second hypospray out of his pocket, adjusted the dosage, and injected it into Mal's neck. Almost instantly the dark-haired man keeled over, boneless. And without touching Trip.

            "Go on," Archer told the medical team, lifting Trip's legs out. "What'd you give him _this_ time?" he asked, squinting worriedly at Mal.

            "Tranquilizer," Phlox admitted, sounding less than pleased. "I always keep it on me when dealing with Mal," he added, helping Archer heft the unconscious man.

            "Are you supposed to give someone suffering from hypothermia a tranquilizer?" Archer questioned, awkwardly backing out of the pod.

            "No," Phlox replied shortly. "But it seemed the most expedient solution to treat both of them."

 

 

#125 "Two Days and Two Nights"

 

            Daylight streamed in through the skylight of the cellar, the warm rays finally rousing Trip from his unconsciousness. He groaned loudly, every muscle protesting the night spent tied up on the floor—in just his skivvies.

            "Morning," said Marcus dryly from beside him.

            "I don't know if it was those Risan mai-tais or gettin' shot, but my head's killin' me," Trip moaned, squirming to sit up.

            "It was probably both," Marcus told him unhelpfully. "The sun's up. We've been down here all night."

            "Great! Our shore leave's half over!" Marcus rolled his eyes at Trip's first concern. "Hey!" Trip continued, shouting towards the door. "We need some help down here! Hello?"

            "I already tried it," Marcus snapped. "Club's closed."

            Trip scooted back to lean against the wooden post near Marcus. "I don't plan on spending our entire trip tied up in a basement," the engineer assured him. He tried to focus through the throbbing pain in his head, concentrating on one thought: _Mal! Get your a-s down here!_ "Mal oughta be here soon," he explained to Marcus. Then, indignantly, he added, "Why the h—l isn't he here already, huh?"

            "You really expected him to come racing across town and leap in front of that phase pistol blast?" Marcus snorted, squirming against the ropes around his wrists.

            "Well, _no_ ," Trip countered. Although maybe he kinda _had_. "But I figured he'd be along pretty quick afterwards... Could be wakin' up in my room with a splitting headache instead of on the floor in a basement."

            "Mal probably would have panicked and taken us to the central hospital," Marcus reasoned. "Which would then have called _Enterprise_ and the Captain. Thus leading to everyone on the ship knowing we got mugged our first night on the planet."

            Trip smirked despite the situation. "And you bein' the Security Officer and all, that'd be pretty embarrassing, I'd imagine."

            "Yes, well, no one would be surprised to hear _you_ were involved," Marcus grumbled meanly. "I mean, who follows two strange aliens into a basement?"

            " _You_ do, when you've had a few too many mai-tais," Trip pointed out. "And they were _gorgeous_ aliens. Don't forget, they were gorgeous!"

            "They were _porcine_ ," Marcus shot back.

            "Not at first!" Trip reminded him. "And I don't remember twisting your arm."

            Marcus sighed heavily and leaned his head back against the post. "If we don't make it to the loading zone on time, they're going to start scanning for our biosigns. Do you want the Captain to find us like this?"

            Trip shook his head. "I'm tellin' ya, Mal's gonna rescue us. Just wait."

            They waited. And waited. And waited. The thoughts Trip sent out to Mal became increasingly violent and threatening, then he switched to pleading, cajoling, and bribing. Finally the two officers heard footsteps on the floor above them and the door lock being juggled.

            "Hey! Help! Down here!" they both shouted at the top of their lungs.

            "Alright, I hear you," a familiar voice, more than tinged with annoyance, replied. Marcus and Trip both sagged in relief.

            Mal surveyed the two of them with his hands on his hips. "Is this sex?" he asked with confusion.

            "No!" the two officers responded in unison, emphatically.

            "It's not what I thought it would be," Mal continued, crouching down to start untying Trip's hands.

            "It's not sex!" Trip repeated adamantly.

            "It's called a _mugging_ ," Marcus pointed out bitterly. "And we would _both_ appreciate it if you could not tell anyone about this. Ever."

            "Where the h—l have you been, anyway?" Trip demanded, rubbing his freed wrists while Mal started on Marcus.

            "At the spa," Mal told him, as if it should be obvious. He gave Trip a narrow look. "Some of your thoughts recently were _not_ conducive to me expelling my negative energy, you know."

            "I'll expel your negative energy," Trip threatened vaguely. "Why didn't you come rescue us last night? When we were getting robbed and _shot_?"

            Mal stopped untying Marcus halfway and gave Trip a horrified look. "You got _shot_?" He immediately started running his fingers through Trip's hair and petting his cheek comfortingly. "Poor Trip! I didn't know you were a _crime victim_! We'll go back to the hotel and you can take a long, hot bath and I'll get you some nice breakfast..."

            "Hey!" Marcus snapped. "What about me?"

            Trip opened his eyes with irritation, having just started to get into the idea of being pampered to make up for his miserable night. He shook Mal off so he could finish freeing Marcus, then the dark-haired man went back to lavishing attention on Trip. "I'm so sorry, Trip," he assured him sorrowfully, massaging his stiff arms. "I thought you were just having sex."

            Trip rolled his eyes as Marcus pulled his aching body to his feet on his own. "Having sex?" the Tactical Officer repeated with disbelief. "When we're getting held up at phase pistol point, stunned, and stripped to our underwear?"

            "Well, Trip said sex might involve feelings of anxiety and fear, and even violence," Mal explained matter-of-factly, helping the engineer to stand.

            Marcus swung his questioning gaze to Trip, whose face was beet red. "I was just tryin' to cover all possible scenarios," he clarified lamely. "You know, so he didn't come bustin' in at an inopportune time."

            "Great," Marcus commented flatly. "That's fantastic. I see you didn't think to ask him to bring us clothing, by the way."

            Trip looked around as if just now noticing that Mal carried nothing, and that nothing suitable for use as clothing was lying around. "Um, no, guess not."

            "Do you want me to bring you some now?" Mal offered eagerly.

            "No, just forget it," Trip decided. "I just want to get the h—l out of here." Marcus gave him a pained look. "Oh, come on, you saw what people were wearin' last night," he insisted. "No one'll know these are our skivvies. We'd wear less to the beach."

            "This isn't the beach, and this isn't late night at a club," Marcus pointed out snidely. "You're seriously suggesting we just walk down the street in our underwear, in broad daylight?"

            Trip clapped Marcus companionably on the shoulder. "Just think of it as a survival test, okay, Marcus?"


End file.
